


Drinks

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because maybe Fenris isn't an alcoholic...he's just a bit of a lightweight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinks

He wasn’t much of a drinker.

Originally, she thought his unfinished glasses of the Hanged Man’s finest was just a sign of him having a picky palate. He’d take a few sips, make a face, and set it aside to return to his losing hand for Wicked Grace. She often finished his drinks, slyly reaching over, pressing her breasts against him as she made a grab and snuck a peek at his cards.

He drank wine, of course. The cellar in that decrepit mansion of his was stocked with Tevinter-made wines,  _perfected by the blood and tears of elvhen slaves_  he’d say with genuine bitterness as he sampled directly from the bottle. _  
_

Hawke would tell her of drunken conversations with the elf, of him throwing bottles against the wall, glass littering an untraveled dusty corner of the large master bedroom.

The way Hawke had put it, Isabela assumed that he drank all the time. That he’d down bottles and bottles of wine and his few tepid sips at the tavern were simply him being his unpleasant, sommelier-esque self.

But he didn’t drink all that much.

She discovered it when she finally sat herself down in his mansion to teach him how to be better at cards, for him to win his money back from Varric. She discovered it when they split a bottle of wine, and the second glass had his ears tipped red and cheeks flushing.

"Have I ever told you," he said, giving up on the card game, voice slurred slightly. He was practically  _giggly_ , not at all the bitter angry drunk that Hawke had told her about.

"Have  _I_  ever  _told_  you that I  _enjoy_  following you.”

Isabela chuckled into her glass, giving up on the lesson as well as she leaned back in the rickety old chair. No frequent drinker would get this giddily drunk after their second glass of wine. It was cute, in a way.

"You’ve never told me that Fenris, no. I thought you enjoyed following Hawke more."

"I do. I  _do_  enjoy it. She is a good leader, a beautiful woman…” his voice trailed off and Isabela snorted, leaning forward to top off her glass and to refill the glass he suddenly held out to her. “She is a  _good_  leader…but…”

"But what, sweet thing?"

"But she doesn’t have your  _ass_.”

At that, Isabela spat out her wine, trying to hold back a laugh and failing miserably as she dribbled all over the table and stained the front of her tunic with red drops.

He continued, swirling his wine messily. “You really are  _something_  Isabela. I don’t tell you that enough, do I?” He was at that rambling stage that lightweights would often get to with one or two drinks. She’d notice this with young recruits on her ship: they’d say things that would wind up getting them in trouble. “You are… _annoying_  but also  _something_. I don’t know what, but it is  _something_." A pause. " _You_  are something.”

He looked at her with large green eyes, staring at her, the haze of alcohol settling in his gaze as she looked back.

"You’re drunk, Fenris."

"I know." He looked away, taking another long drink from his glass before pulling a face and setting it back down on the table. His face was beet red now, and his tattoos glimmered slightly in the fading light of the fireplace. "I…only drink on special occasions." He admitted, though he didn’t have to.

"This is nothing special."

“ _You_  are.” His tone was blunt, slurred but honest, and he looked at her again with such an intense, drunken stare that she suddenly felt an uncomfortable squeezing sensation in her stomach.

She laughed it away, rising up and finishing off her glass, and then taking his to finish for good measure.

"You’re a  _horrid_  lightweight Fenris,” she finally said, and when she went to gather her things he rose suddenly from his chair, leaning on the table for support as the room no doubt spun for him.

"Please stay." He frowned, moving towards her to take her by the arm, his grip tight as thought trying to stay afloat. "I enjoy your company. I enjoy serving you wine. I…"

Isabela tutted, hooking her arm in his and leading him to sit down on the bed. When she went to move back, he caught her wrist in his hand, thumb at her pulse; she felt it quicken beneath his touch, for whatever silly reason that may be. He looked up at her with the sort of intention that most drunk men got when they looked at her, but he knitted dark eyebrows together and perhaps thought better of it, settling himself down on the bed, crossing his legs and watching her go.

"You’ve started to enjoy a lot more things, I’ve noticed." She gathered her glasses (the elf didn’t have his own glasses, but it figured, he rarely entertained), and collected what remained of his wine to bring back to her place.

"So enjoy a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the afternoon."


End file.
